Love's a splendid flower,
That leaves you with no power,
You can't think, or sleep,
Nor laugh, or weep.
The flower poisoins your soul,
And makes you a ghould,
Wondering around,
With the legs above the ground.
Her parfume you keep,
In your heart, somewhere deep,
Where no human has ever been,
In your big, complicated machine.
I hate to be sick,
I do love to sleep,
But when the flower arrives,
I start to realise,
That I'm very weak,
And my brain is a brick,
Stupid, and thick.
YOU ARE READING
Stejarul tăiat
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